Tuesday, July 10, 2012

last night


The front tires of the corolla barely cleared the curb with the abrupt, wide left turn. I had been driving slow, debating taking the detour into the neighborhood whose streets formed a perfect figure eight. The sudden left turn surprised me as much as it did the poor vehicle, and we both continued slowly down the street. I mused at the sight of my old neighbors’ houses, their same cars in the driveways, one house with their porch light perpetually on, shining into the street. The headlights guiding me caught just the right angle of the reflective letters on a mailbox. The bright letters shining, “HOME” right at me made my heart twinge a little bit. As I rounded the top of the eight, my foot found the brake pedal as my eyes squinted at one house in particular, which had no lights on at all, which was to be expected. For a flash of a moment, though, in my mind’s eye, the windows of the old house glowed warmly as I approached. The driveway was overflowing with cars of friends of family and friends, double and triple parked there. I nearly came to a stop when I was sure I could see my brother in the window, pounding the old family piano tuneless with his ballads. I blinked hard at that awful tingling feeling of oncoming tears I always felt in my temples. And with the refusal of my own tears, the house was dark and vacant as ever. I barely caught the sight of a piece of paper taped to the front door, and of course the ugly metal framed sign the realtor had stabbed in the yard only a few weeks prior. The words FOR SALE seemed to be in neon tonight, flashing hopelessly into my eyes. I wondered for a moment about what the paper on the front door might say, something about vacancy and eviction, I speculated. But the thought was quickly dismissed, realizing I’d rather not know what heart wrenchingly general things the paper may say. Did it mention the heartache of a family who once called this place a home? Did it mention the ruthlessness of lawyers and judges who shrugged at a desperate man and woman, pleading for mercy but finding none? Surely it said nothing of the weeks of packing up 20 years of life and memories into filthy cardboard boxes, and the somberness with which they were packed. I knew as I drove away from that place that the notice on the door mentioned none of those things, and that potentials buyers and realtors would never know of how this house became abandoned. Those things were personal, lived by a husband, wife and children doing their best with the hand they had been dealt. When it comes to the world, money and business, there is no mercy to be exercised. And I suppose that before this whole ordeal, had I been a lawyer in some other life, I’m sure I’d pull someone’s home out from under them as well, to get my paycheck at the end of the week. But it’s only until you’re the one filling up truckload after truckload full to the brim with your life that you think, man, a little mercy could go a long way.
My eyes were wide and wandering, one arm on the steering wheel and the other stiff at my side. I fought again the tingle of tears as I mindlessly rounded out of the figure eight back onto the main road, a route which I had driven countless number of times before. The only thought I could manage echoed in my skull as I left the house behind me: Why on earth did I ever come back here?

1 comment:

  1. You have a gift Sam. President Monson said that God gives us memories so that we can have roses in December. Memories can't be taken away by some note on the door.

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